Best Laid Plans
by Jaqui Napier
Summary: Dexter Morgan has always planned his kills down to the last detail, and depended on his keen sense of reason. However, taking on Gotham's Most Wanted will more than shakes his best laid plans....


Best Laid Plans

It's that moon again; slung so fat and low in the tropical night, a glowing orb of endorsement strung against the Miami sky, as if Nature itself was giving Delighted, Devilish Dexter here the cosmic equivalent of a thumbs-up and toothy grin. If I was to abandon my steely rationalism to such mushy thinking, I'd like to believe that whatever spirit mooched around the shadows of the universe could smile on even a monster like me; after all, I've done nothing more than follow the instinct planted deep within me, right up to the hilt.

Would it smack of delusions of grandeur to wonder whether I'm an instrument in maintaining some savage sort of natural order, and a finely-tuned, deeply enthusiastic and rather handsome one at that? Or maybe I'm just a glorified janitor, sweeping up the human debris that litters this planet, with no more moral agency than Nature's other great trash collectors, the sharks and the crocodiles, my cold-blooded kindred. Well, Nature is red in tooth and claw, after all; although quite what Mother Earth would make of my epic consumption of plastic sheeting and industrial-strength bleach remains to be seen. A predator I may be, but there's no excuse for sloppy standards.

A flicker of envy for the shamelessness of my fellow killers tickled me for a moment, and the Dark Passenger uncoiled within the dark pit of my reptilian brain. I relished for a moment a fantasy of unabated, unabashed slaughter with all the glorious freedom to pursue my murderous delights without the shadow of Sergant Doakes breathing down the back of my Hawaiian shirt collar. Nervously I glanced over my shoulder. I won't put it past Doakes to have disguised himself as a cobweb, only to jump out at some inopportune moment, yelling, "Surprise, motherfucker!" or some other choice witticism. And all for heinous crime of being myself.

Now, now, Dexter, this is not the night for contemplating your place in the great scheme of things. So those black-eyed killing machines of the seas and swamps mightn't be troubled with all of the meticulous planning that stands between Dexter and Death Row; but rarely do they come into possession of a truly comprehensive array of devices as I have accumulated over my illustrious career. Neatly lined up upon my work bench, my faithful tools of execution lay patiently waiting for their turn to wreck their havoc on living flesh, elegant scalpels nesting along side my brutish power tools. In the moonlight, the edge of my favourite cleaver shone with as much pale and deadly beauty as any Great White's teeth. Why, if I had a soul I think that it would have been stirring at the sight of such poetry rendered in steel. And an ever-so convenient abandoned warehouse to enjoy them all in. Ah, a little bit of urban neglect goes a long way. And to think, some idiot in the city hall is probably scheming to build a shiny air-conditioned slice of retail hell over my little play park of torture as we speak. Some people have no sense of social responsibility.

And tonight, ladies and gentlemen, chez Dexter- the latest in serial-killer chic, courtesy of a rather careless lapse in security protocol on behalf Miami PD, joining us all the way from a dingy downtown evidence locker, I present to you a truly elegant solution to all your arterial-splatter concerns – a custom-made piece, looking like the outcome of some hellish collision between a table and an abattoir. Complete with stainless steel ankle and wrist cuffs, this little beauty looks like your standard restraining-device-come-dissection table, until, that is, you pull _this_ lever, and watch as the table surface tips by ninety degrees, so that your lovely assistant is suspended by their ankles. Clever stuff, and you'll not find a better system for relieving your subject of all that superfluous blood before packaging them up into the constituent parts. I'm sure Rudy would approve of my re-appropriation of his favourite toy, now that I've scoured the last traces of his splattered gore from its cold metal edges. Talk about keeping it in the family.

"I have to say, I'm charmed to have met someone with louder dress sense than any of Miami's fine citizens," I chirped, checking the security of the cuffs locked into place over patch-work socks. "And I thought _my_ shirt collection was a master-class in simple good taste." Of all the trials of feinting humanity, dress sense has mercifully never been a problem for me. I simply adopt the ubiquitous garish floral prints, levelled out with a touch of preppy khaki, and Deadly Dexter Disappears.

"Still, kudos for having the gall to pull off purple and green," I quipped, snapping on my gloves.

I regarded my studio. Implements, check. Tarpaulin and plastic sheeting on every surface, check. Worthy subject to lavish my attention upon, check. Atta boy, Dexter. Harry would be proud. A dark beat was beginning to pound somewhere in the region of my lizard heart. The Dark Passenger opened a wicked eye, salivating at the prospect of fresh blood and the simple wholesome pleasure of a stated craving. With my lust reaching a feverish peak, I whipped back the hessian bag over my new pal's head, a few mossy hairs jerking loose of his greasy scalp.

Peekaboo, Joker.

"Good e-_even-ing_,_" _spluttered the wrecked face, offering a warped parody of a smile. The duct tape I'd taken the effort to slap over his riveted mouth had been chewed away; the flecks of fresh blood welling like tears from his lips told me he'd gnawed down on more than his gag. I have to say, I like duct tape. If I were, in some wildly alternative wonderful universe, to teach a Serial Killing For Beginners course, I would extol the virtue of duct tape above almost everything else; everything except a well-oiled chainsaw, I suppose. It silences my victims more by power of suggestion than brute force; once you've wound a little of the silver sticky stuff over their slathering mouth, it's as though they resist screaming out more out deference for your efforts than a genuine inability. After all, as my darling pierroit had so nicely demonstrated, all it takes is a touch of incisor action and a persuasive tongue to work it loose.

Dried blood was caking in his mop of dirty hair from our little tussle. I suppose one of the perks of taking out my clinically insane brothers-in-arms is that, well, they're insane. Mr. Joker here didn't strike me as having a particular verve for the usual hierarchy and associated kow-towing that mafia sorts typically go in for with such enthusiasm. Why else would he be alone in Miami, loitering by the riverbanks, without even a minor gaggle of idiot henchmen for personal protection? And I should know; I'd been hunting him for days now. I had to admit a grudging respect; all true predators stalk alone, out alone under the direction of the Dark Passenger and that lustful, lunatic moon.

With the care of a true professional, I lightly pulled open his eyelids and regarded the state of his pupils. Those dark irises rolled against the sick ivory of his eyes. Yup, he was fully conscious. Excellent. I'd hate to think of my efforts being wasted on a snoozing vegetable. And besides, if I allowed Dexter to be a little self-centred for a moment, I rather fancied a little chat before I despatched Gotham's Most Wanted; just because social networking can be difficult for your lone killer. It's not like we can rent out a drab Midwestern hotel for a conference or anything.

Turning to my box of tricks, I adopted a jovial tone. "So, I imagine you know why you're here?" I hadn't intended to sound like a school ma'am, but even Debonair Dexter sometimes has his linguistic lapses.

"_Be-cause_ you jumped on me – while I'm on holiday, _might_ I add - and jabbed a hypodermic in my neck?" His voice had a guttural quality, rising with something of a whine. It made my knife hand itch. I selected my favourite scalpel, its edge as straight and sharp as justice, and held it in my gloved hand with the classic pen-grip of a true surgeon.

"Well, you're part of the way there. But I think the forty-two confirmed homicides committed by your hand should be taken into consideration also." I placed the tip of my blade against his pan-sticked cheek, against the peak of the gnarled tissue which mauled his face, and dug it in ever so slightly; a small bead of his maniac blood seeped out, garish against his tacky pallor. Just enough for me to dab onto my slide. It's nice to have a record of my adventures; all those happy, happy memories neatly contained between two slices of glass; and besides, it looked rather endearing against the curve of his scar, like a childish dimple.

He bucked, his shoulders juddering against the metal surface with a rhythmic shudder. That surprised me a little; I had, after all just started, and was hoping to take his mind off the trivial wound I'd inflicted in the name of habit as soon as I could. There's nothing like the soothing touch of a machete to dull the pain of a mere paper cut. It was only when a deranged noise clawed its way up from his ridiculous boots that I realised he was _laughing_. A crippling, all-consuming giggle broke free from his lipstick-smeared mouth, his yellow teeth on show like something from _Nation Geographic_.

"So, you...a ha ha ha, ho, hee hee, are a...a sort of moral _accountant_. Oh, ho ho ... if only I'd have know you'd been keeping the _score_, we-ell, maybe I'd have cut up fewer cops," the Joker chortled, looking even madder than I'd have anticipated. While Demonic Deviant Dexter is scarcely the poster-child of sound psychological health, at least I have the good grace to hide my more niche inclines in company. It's only polite, really, and it's rather useful in evading the likes of Doakes and his ilk.

Had I of been any less convinced of his profound insanity, I'd have been a shade disconcerted by his levity in the face of Death-Dealing Dexter. In my time, I thought I'd seen the whole gamut of emotions in the faces of the soon-to-be carrion: the defiant expressions of those who thought that they'd had a good run; regret from some at having been caught by yours truly; and simple, naked terror. Oh, and of course there's the bargainers; as if I'd be interested in a kilo of finest-grade cocaine; the thrill of the knife is the only addiction I need stating. As if seeing inside my head, my blood-splattered buddy started up again.

"A-ha, ha ha. Oh, I _see_. I get the joke. _You're_ the serial killer who only kills the killers." A tongue as red as raw meat darted between his lips. "And I suppose that makes _every_-thing _all_-right."

I didn't care much for his talk of right and wrong; I usually left that brand of self-conscious hand-wringing to the humans, and anyway, I suspected he wasn't being entirely _serious_. "Nah, not really. I enjoy my work..." I paused as I admired the cruel curvature of my next toy, "but it pays to have a good, sound rational in place. For my own self-preservation more than anything, of course. I don't imagine the donuts are all that good in our nation's fine correctional institutes. And I suppose you'd be well aware of that fact, being Arkham Alumni and all." With my free hand I worked loose the fatly-knotted tie around my pet psycho's neck and wriggled it down, exposing the skin of his throat, the skin a curious tinge against the smudge of his war-paint. I placed the cool arc of the blade in the shallow recess lying between his collar bones. He was slightly thinner than I'd anticipated, although not gaunt by any stretch; maybe the garish purple of his frock coat had given him an impression of more _presence_, or perhaps the violet and green combination simply lacked the figure-trimming qualities of a nice charcoal gray.

The blade broke skin, and I gently lead the tip of the knife down from the Joker's collar, etching a fine scarlet sash into the exposed V of flesh. I can't say I'd ever had a particular thing for blood per say; it's impossible to truly revel in its creative possibilities with the prospect of an extensive clean-up lurking in the more rational recesses of Dexter's neuro-cortex. When I end my days in some hellhole mental home, no doubt I'll benefit greatly from art therapy, with all that freedom to throw and smudge and smatter.

"Well, please do allow me to offer my _con_-gradulations in evading capture so-o-o long. You know, I see where you're coming from. Like my father told me, "Always be prepared". He was a scout leader, you see. It combined all his passions in life: discipline, the great outdoors, boys, and hunting knifes."

The clown paused and gasped as I turned my attentions to his forearms; well, what did he expect, having his shirt sleeves turned up like a washer-woman? All that skin, smooth as a canvas, for me to ply my trade upon. His teeth flashed in a grimace, and he smacked his rouged lips obscenely, making a sound like rare steak splattering against the sidewalk. And to think, I'd hardly started.

"But of course, he -daddy-dearest - he wasn't prepared for _me_ ever repaying the favour. That's the thing with you _sssschemers_, you think you can account for _every_-thing. What I could teach you - what I could teach all of society – is that you need to allow for the limitless potential of ..."

"Human stupidity?" I interjected.

"Of _chaos_." A small dribble of blood bubbled at the corner of his painted, pained mouth like a froth of surf after a shark attack; and yet, he was grinning, a wide lunatic smile framed by the arch of scar tissue flanking his ruined face.

A smiled back, a bland vestige of emotion that had serviced me so well before. Christ on a pogo-stick, he really was crazy. All that ranting about the chaos and cruelty of this capricious universe; he sounded like a teenager high on semi-digested Darwin. Still, no skin off my nose, I decided, and I twisted a sweet, small knife into his lilac-clad shoulder. A black-burgundy bloomed out, and the Dark Passenger writhed with excitement. My pasty-faced pal writhed too, and I imagined then nerves shooting like lightening all the way from his carved flesh to his unstable brain; and yet that ghoulish smile persisted.

He read my look rather well for a loon. "Don't think that I don't have a certain a-apre-_ciation_ for what you _do_," he spat, the light of pain glowing in his eyes. "But – _rules_ fall through. They always have – and always will. All these laws and _legalisations _ – scratch beneath the surface and you'll find nothing but vanity. Just look at any code – _Harry's _code, perhaps."

Now, I may be a cold-blooded killer already, but something in me chilled. How did Joker here know about my step-father? My teeth bit hard. "Oh, so you approve of my dad's policy? Well, that certainly bolsters my confidence." A sick fear lapped against my molars; if he knew about Harry, what else did he know? How had he tapped my well of doubt with such precision? This was not the time, nor the place, to share my suspicions that Harry may not have been the paragon of virtue. Think, Dexter. Focus on the clown.

"I can see I've got you thinking. Good. All your life you've followed the rules lain out by your father to make you a, uh, _superior_ class of killer. But – where's your creative spark? Where's your spontaneity? Don't tell me that all your _planning_ does strangle the joy out of good clean _ssss_laughter?" The Joker hissed, his dark eyes rolled back in their kohled-rimmed sockets, following me around the room. If I hadn't have taken the precaution of securing his arms, I guessed that he'd be gesticulating wildly at this point. He seemed the sort; I bet he even went as far as making 'jazz hands' when he was _really_ getting into a good mind-fuck.

"Like all villains I've known in my time," I said lightly, fumbling with the latch as I tried to fit a fresh bit into the cordless drill, hoping to maintain an aura of callous calm, "You certainly like the sound of your own voice." My fingers were slippery with blood; tightening the grip was like working a jelly rubix cube. It wasn't like I'd even cut him that deep; nothing a few dozen stitches couldn't take care off; but my hands were as thoroughly slicked as if I'd been finger-painting in the stuff. This was most unlike me, and I didn't like it. Where was Dependable, Dexterous Dexter when I needed him? Against my will, I swallowed.

"Now, now _that's_ what's wrong with today's monsters. You all act like '_arbitrary_' is a dirty word, and it isn't. Look a little closer at the lives of those people who up-hold this so-called civilisation, and you'll find they're as rotten as you or I," he continued, rambling with the insane eloquence of a madman, his mouth gurning, his smile yellow as peach-flesh. By now, the stress of tonight's exertions had begun to take their toll on my dear clown-prince; he was sweating heavily in the Miami heat, white foundation streaking down his face, leaving chalky smudges against his collar. Well, I hope his suit wasn't _too_ expensive. With a tinge of the theatrical that I felt sure my guest would appreciate, I gave the drill a start-up whirl. I had planned on indulging my pennant for the hatchet tonight, but any mechanical whir was infinitely preferable to _his _voice inside my head.

"Oh, ho, Harry, Harry, Harry _Morgan_, a-ha ha ha, " chucked The Joker over the whine of my toy, looking gripped to his core with some horrible mirth, juddering with the helplessness of a still-twitching road-kill, "What would you say to your boy now? Would to tell him to expect, uh..."

"The unexpected?" I offered, raising my eyebrow and the drill; the metal ready to bite the streaked skin of his temple, and lead the way into his demented skull.

"A little - _anarchy_."

With a soft _whompt_, a gash was scored in my carefully-constructed sheeting suspended from the rafters. As I was still standing, abet startled, rather than finding myself a bullet-riddled 'motherfucker', my tingling Dexter-senses told me my gate-crasher wasn't Sergeant Doakes. While that was certainly nice, it didn't settle the question of who had just rudely barged in on my special date-night. Or what that person had wiggling and squawking like an incensed parrot in their arms.

The figure advanced, awkwardly jostling a companion slightly ahead, all trussed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, a bag over their head. As the form came out of the dinge of the warehouse, I saw it was a she; a young-ish woman in a suit that must have been smart once upon a time; of at least before someone decided to roll her through a bonfire. Judging from their comparative sizes, the turkey was a woman too. She stepped into the bright light of my operating theatre; her face was coated in the same garish slap as The Joker, the black knots of fresh stitches dotted in an arc across her cheeks. Oh Christ, I thought, not another one of those pathetic fanatical girls, slathering like a rabid puppy around Mr J. here; and this one seemed zealous even by their standards. I'd seen him first, okay? And she was a potential witness too. My spit turned to sand.

"Best laid plans, eh?" crowed my gabbling subject. His craned his neck so that he could regard our new arrivals, fresh blood leaking from my fine-line work as he stretched. "Meet my newly recruited associate, Ms. Rachael Dawes. Did you hear, they never _did _recover her body from that explosion?" He laughed; I rather thought he might. "As if I'd pass over such an opportunity and let that fine body and so, so _sssharp_ a mind go to waste! Amazing what a little torture can do for a girl, don't you think?" He snapped his lips together with savage glee. "And, as you well know, having an inside man – so to speak – an _ace _in the hole, with a little experience in the world of policing, can give today's criminal as wonderful advantage."

"_Even_-ing, Mr. Morgan," she sang, in that same grating intonation as her boss, "please, met my colleague here." With one arm tight around her squirming captive and glinting blade against her throat, she reached for the hood concealing her face and revealed one very pissed off Debra, her face scarlet under a tightly bound gag, a collection of bruising on her features already being to surface. I couldn't tell what enraged her more; the prospect of her impending doom, or the fact she was once again a damsel in distress in front of her big brother. Oh, Harry, what _would_ you think of this? Both progeny of the fine Detective Morgan were well and truly caught with their proverbial pants down.

I smiled. "Very good, Joker. Ha ha. Yeah, I get the joke. What are you going to do, make me kill my sister so I can join you over on the da-har-rk side?" I struggled for an even tone. Of all the humans I'd encountered, Debs was the one I'd rather not see sliced into fish food; and more than that, this was posing a decided risk of becoming _messy_. How could I have not accounted for this probability? The Dark Passenger slunk off into the shadowy recesses of my mind, refusing to take any responsibility for my predicament.

The Joker and Rachael exchanged looks and sniggered like schoolchildren. "Do I look like a man with a plan?" he grinned, "Now, let me go, and your lovely sister lives. Kill me, and, well, you'll be deprived of a playmate; and you're sister will die. Consider that a perk of our arrangement; let me free, and think of the _fun_ we could have. Having your sister in one piece is merely a bonus."

A wave of déjà vu washed over me. Shit. I'd been here before; yet it was different this time. The prospect of having encountered a kindred spirit, someone who understood my needs and urges and offered a brave new alternative tantalised me for one brief moment, and then vaporised under the bright light of reality. I couldn't let Debra get hurt. Imagine the atmosphere there'd be a work if something happened to one of Miami PD's finest, not to mention hottest. The attention that Doakes would lavish upon me if my dear own sister were to be ground into mincemeat; it was unbearable. I'd never make another kill again. Resigned, I reached for the restrains, and let them click open over those blood-streaked forearms.

My former prey sat up, wincing in pain as my ill-fated handiwork re-opened. A faint outline of congealed blood lay on the table; a ghoulish suggestion of what might have been. Bitter disappointment brewed in my mouth, and I placed the drill back on my work bench. The Joker slid off the table in one bold swoop, and gave a nod to Rachael, still grinning madly.

"I'm a man of my word," he growled, "Let her go." Rachael smiled in salacious glee and pushed Debra free, letting her fall from her arms, landing in a snarling heap at her feet. The Joker, now on his feet and cracking his neck with relish, took a step towards me, his ridiculous boots toe-to-toe with my sneakers. The smile, that wicked grin, lingered still on his face, framed by the gnarl of his scars and smeared lipstick. I was starting to regret having relinquished my power tool as he stood so close to me I could smell the strangely tang of something like decay on his breath, mingled with a heady sweetness. Those black shark eyes bored into mine, and the Dark Passenger stretched out something like a hand in recognition towards this joker, this knave; so, he was crazy, but surely that's just the rational response to life on this idiot planet? He leaned in close, and I braced myself for yet another diatribe from Gotham's favourite psycho. The temptation to snatch those bloody lips between my teeth...

He kissed me. Hard. His mouth pressed so firmly against mine that I nearly tumbled backwards with the shear forcefulness, let alone the shock. A tongue darted between my lips for the briefest of moments and, as if satisfied with what it savoured, withdrew. In the time it took for Dazed, Disorientated Dexter to blink his bewildered eyelids, the Joker and Rachael had scarpered off into the darkness. A tinny laugh echoed around the warehouse, undercut by the ring of fleeing footsteps. Remembering who I ought to be, I helped Debs back up onto her feet, shock and rage scalding her face, rendering her a deep crimson. She seemed more stricken with embarrassment than traumatised from her ordeal.

"Are you ok?" I asked Debs, delving fearlessly into the deepest, darkest depth of cliché. She looked at me with the sheer horror that you'd normally regard you saviour with, distaste flickering about the corners of her mouth.

"Jesus, Dexter, your face," she rasped and recoiled from me, ever the grateful sister. I ran my fingertips down the sides of my mouth; there was nothing there but Delightful Dexter, as far as I could feel. Staggering over to my abandoned work bench, I picked up a particularly shiny scalpel so that I could see myself. A bright red gash leered back, a grisly veneer transferred during my impromptu exchange.

_Epilogue_

Having sister around the house is putting a Decided Dampener on Dexter's nocturnal dalliances. Or at least I tell myself it is; the sick tremor of adrenaline has long since drained from my fingertips, but there's something hovering in the periphery of my mind, a black shadow that for once isn't shaped like the hulking bulk of Sergeant Doakes. That night _unnerved_ me. The suggestion that maybe, just maybe, the code that shaped and saved my life as long as I can remember mightn't be as impenetrable as I thought. To have been so close to – to what? To have come so close to seeing Debs diced into dogfood, again? To recognising my own not-quite human frailty? I couldn't pin it down. My gut gave a twist; maybe it was him, that lunatic and all the madness he stands for that I couldn't scour from my brain. Christ, and to think I always thought it would be Vince Masuoka and his awful puns who'd eventually drove me around the bend. Lacking any better response, I took a slurp of my beer and thought about phoning Rita.

I almost didn't hear the door bell ring, but that wasn't old age creeping up on Dexter. It's a miracle I can hear anything in here over the incessant _chtump-chtump-chtump_ of Deb's feet hammering the running machine in my spare bedroom. When I offered to let her stay, I didn't realise I'd signed up to the equivalent of a herd of wildebeest rampaging through the house on a nightly basis. Never mind. It would be perhaps a little insensitive to complain, given I'm a slightly surprised she still has her extremities are attached, rather than neatly wrapped up in a garbage bags at this rate, courtesy of either Rudy or Rachael. I could almost hear the determined grit of her teeth from the den.

Detaching myself from the coach was a near herculean effort; all those nights spent in front of the TV, watching wildlife documentaries with Rita, Cody and Astor nuzzled down between us, and I'm running a definite risk of turning into that definition a square-eyed sloth, aka. the Typical American. The Dark Passenger hadn't been in the driving seat in nearly a month, and I was starting to resemble a pufferfish more than a shark.

There was no-one on the porch, and I would have missed the box, had it not been for the bow. Nice touch, I thought. Gingerly I flipped open the lid, a nervousness tickling the lining my stomach, curdling my beer. The absence of wires or ticking was reassuring enough, and it was too light to be a dead cat or severed head, which was equally promising. Ah, how helpful; a note:

'_Nothing can withstand the assault of S-laughter._'

And underneath:

'_Play date soon. J._'

The Joker must have been fresh out of biros, because his sweet nothing was written in a bright scarlet scrawl. There was tacky white smudge, like a fingerprint, in the corner of the note, so I lifted it to take a closer look. Squashed beneath the paper was a donut, its thick white icing scored with an uneven red crescent.

Something in my reptile brain stirred to life. I'll take him up on the offer, I knew it wasn't a question; and in the light of the moon, hung so fat and low in the tropical night, the Dark Passenger gave a smile.


End file.
